Just My Type

by Tara Sivec

  “We’re celebrating that R.J. no longer hisses when you’re in the room, Mom,” Lincoln whispers as he continues staring at the hedgehog sitting at his little table. “That deserves a yummy dinner, at the head of the table.”

  Ron Jeremy makes little squeaking noises each time he bends forward and nibbles on his food. He’s kept everything nice and neat on the table while he eats, and just sits there like a fucking good boy. It really is kind of adorable, especially since he’s no longer trying to drag me back down to hell with him, but I don’t want him on the table. This is where we eat our food. But I’ve also been contemplating kitchen counter sex all evening, which would most likely put an ass on the counter, where I prepare the food, sooo….

  While the men are busy being mesmerized by a hedgehog eating at a tiny table, I walk over to the stove and grab the dessert I put here to cool when the timer went off a few minutes ago. Dishing out some for each of us in little ceramic bowls, I spray a healthy amount of whipped topping from a can on top of each before taking them over to the table and distributing them.

  The kitchen is suddenly filled with moans of appreciation and forks scraping against bowls, adorable hedgehog sitting at a tiny table forgotten for the moment.

  “I thought that mac and cheese was the best thing I’ve ever eaten, but I changed my mind,” Baker says, reaching over with his fork to try and blatantly steal some of Lincoln’s dessert.

  Lincoln bats Baker’s fork away with his own, and then the two of them spend a few minutes laughing and having a fork battle before they resume eating again.

  “It’s the best dessert mom makes for the farm. I mean, she used to make for the farm,” Lincoln informs Baker in between bites. “She makes a lot of good stuff, but this one’s my favorite. It’s called Apple Lincoln Cake.”

  When Lincoln starts to giggle as soon as he says the name, a sharp pang goes through me when I realize what an idiot I’ve been. I was so busy missing home that I stopped doing a lot of the things I did there, like baking, because I figured it would just make me sad. Hearing my son’s laughter talking about his favorite dessert that I named after him makes me realize I need to start bringing more of home here. Especially for Lincoln.

  “Mom, tell Baker why it’s called Apple Lincoln Cake,” my son prods, barely able to get the words out, because he’s eight, and he’s a boy, and the story behind this name always makes him lose it.

  “So, I did all of the baking for the store part of the pumpkin farm,” I speak, crossing my arms and resting them on the table in front of me, while Baker sets his fork down and gives me his full attention. “I use a lot of my family’s old recipes, but I also make up a bunch of my own. Anyway, we’ve had this recipe in our family forever, and it’s usually made with pumpkin pie filling. I decided to play around with it when Lincoln was a baby, and made it with apple pie filling instead. Lincoln loved it when I first fed it to him and let him be my taste-tester. He got so happy he—”

  “I pooped in my diaper!” Lincoln finishes with a laugh. “The original recipe is called a Pumpkin Dump Cake. Mom named this one Apple Lincoln Cake, because it made me dump.”

  As Lincoln goes back to finishing his dessert, Baker decides to keep saying the word dump each time Lincoln brings his fork up to his mouth. This results in Lincoln busting out with more giggles every time, whipped cream, and nuts, and cakey apple pie filling constantly spraying all around his mouth.

  My heart can’t even handle the two of them right now.

  “Okay, pick up the dirty clothes in your room then shower time, dumpy,” I announce, pushing back from the table to start collecting all the dirty dishes.

  “But I—”

  “The faster you pick up your things and shower, the sooner we can start playing hide-and-seek,” Baker cuts Lincoln off.

  I’m going to swoon if he keeps this up. He just eliminated my nightly chores and shower argument in less than three seconds.

  Lincoln runs out of the kitchen without another word. Grabbing Ron Jeremy from his tiny table, I move through the kitchen and into the laundry room to put him back in his cage. Quietly, so no one can hear me and I can firmly deny it, I spend a few minutes baby-talking to R.J., telling him what good manners he had at dinner. By the time I walk back out into the kitchen, Baker has already cleared all the dishes from the table, and he’s standing at the sink, rinsing off the last one.

  Oh, hell. I might have an orgasm from this alone.

  Walking up next to him, my shoulder brushes up against his arm as I hold my hand out for the plate he just finished rinsing, when I hear the shower turn on in the back of the house. Baker sets the plate in my hand, and I turn and pull open the dishwasher on the other side of me, putting it on the bottom rack.

  When I come back up and turn around, Baker’s eyes are down by my stomach, and they slowly move up to mine with a hungry look in them, which means he had just been staring at my ass. Knowing he was looking, I caught him looking, and he didn’t bother to hide how much he appreciates looking, is just hot as hell.

  “How long will he be in the shower?” Baker asks casually as he hands me a drinking glass, but his face is anything but casual.

  His eyes are on my mouth, and he’s running his tongue over his bottom lip, like he’s trying to see if he can still taste me from our kiss earlier. I grab the glass out of his hand, turn around, and shove it on the top rack of the dishwasher to stop myself from climbing him like a tree. I’m all for being creative and sneaky to get some alone time with him, but I know my son’s shower habits.

  “Probably less than two minutes,” I reply, grabbing a handful of rinsed-off silverware out of Baker’s hand. “He’s an eight-year-old boy. It’s a miracle he’s showering at all. You should also know, he’ll probably come out, try to tell me he washed his hair, when it still smells like straight-up asshole and is only slightly damp because he splashed some water on it.”

  Putting the last of the dishes in the washer, I close the door and face Baker, leaning my hip against the edge of the counter.

  “Then, there will most likely be an argument, and probably a door slam when I go back and make him take another shower, where he actually washes his hair,” I finish.

  He wanted to experience Friday night with a mom; well, here you go. And he’s in luck. Not only is this a Friday night experience, but it’s an experience that happens every night ending in Y. The night we got Ron Jeremy and he had pizza with us doesn’t count. Lincoln was too happy about having a pet that he didn’t put up a fight over anything. It’s a once-in-a-blue-moon experience.

  Baker moves closer until there’s only a few inches of distance between us. He skims the tips of his fingers back and forth lightly, right above the low-rise, waistband of my jeans, against the exposed skin of my stomach under my belly button.

  “Okay,” Baker replies with an easy smile. “That really was the best dessert I’ve ever had. Everyone must miss your baking back home.”

  I try to focus on what he’s saying to me, instead of what he’s doing with his fingers. Each time he makes another swipe of his fingertips across my stomach, he dips them just the tiniest bit under the waistband of my jeans.

  “I had a small staff to help me out after my brother expanded the farm. A few local teenagers who worked part-time and helped me do most of the grunt work,” I tell him. “They know all the recipes, but according to my brother, everything tasted like shit after I left. So, instead of having fresh-baked items you can take home with you, now they just order some things from a bakery a few towns over, like cookies and donuts. Easy things people can carry and eat while they walk around the farm.”

  “Well, anytime you feel like flexing your baking skills, I’m available as a taste-tester.”

  Baker’s hand flattens against my stomach, and he starts sliding it around my waist, leaning toward me as I push up on my toes.

  “Mom! Come sniff my hair!”

  Baker and I both laugh, breaking apart before our lips can touch.

  �
��Go give him the smell test. I’ll get R.J. back out of his cage and get him in his hide-and-seek outfit,” Baker tells me, both of us walking backward away from each other, him toward the laundry room and me to the bathroom.

  “He has a hide-and-seek outfit now? Don’t tell me you brought him something else tonight, on top of the tiny chair and table.”

  Baker pauses right in the doorway of the laundry room and shakes his head at me. “It’s the camo shirt he already has, Ember. You know you can’t see him when he puts the camo on.”

  Still shaking his head, he turns and disappears into the laundry room.

  Honestly, it must be some kind of world record that this man can light my body on fire and make me laugh, all within such a short amount of time.

  After an hour of hide-and-seek, and another hour of one very long hand of Uno that would never fucking end, I was about ready to come out of my skin. Lincoln didn’t want to leave Baker’s side, and I couldn’t blame him. Not one damn bit. Every time Baker looked at me, every time his leg brushed up against mine under the table, and every time he casually grazed his hand across the skin of my stomach each time he walked by where I was standing during hide-and-seek, I wanted to latch myself to him like an octopus and never let go.

  I should feel like the worse mother in the world that I spent most of the night trying to come up with something, anything that would keep Lincoln preoccupied for a decent length of time, and had nothing to do with Baker. I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Over a year and a half, man. I might be a mother, but I’m also a woman. A woman with needs. Needs that have to be fulfilled before I explode.

  Play with matches? Run with scissors? Lick a 9-volt battery? Have at it, kid! Now is your chance to defy every warning I’ve given you since birth, as long as you stay busy for a minimum of thirty minutes.

  “Drinks are here on my nightstand, and you can just put the bowl on the floor when you’re done,” I tell Lincoln, leaning over and kissing the top of his head.

  I told him he could stay up late to watch his favorite movie, in the comfort of my big, fluffy bed, with a huge bowl of his favorite sour cream and onion potato chips, and three more Capri Suns, on top of the two he already had with dinner. I’m horny, but I’m not a dipshit. I did the responsible thing and bribed my son, like any good mother. And he can tell me he’s not tired until he’s blue in the face. His eyes are droopy, he’s already curled up under the covers with his head on my pillow, and he’s hugging the bowl of chips instead of eating them.

  Letting him think I was giving him the freedom to eat junk food and stay up all night was much easier than arguing about bedtime and having him come out of his room ten times, claiming he forgot to ask me something.

  Leaving on the small lamp on my nightstand, I flip the switch on my way out to turn the bright overhead light off, smiling when I watch Lincoln’s eyes flutter closed as I’m pulling the door shut behind me. Anxious butterflies make themselves known as I walk down the hall, and I press my hand to my stomach to try to calm them, my feet stuttering to a stop in the doorway to the living room.

  Baker is sitting at one end of my couch, lounging back into the cushions, with his knees spread and one of my pillows thrown on his lap. He’s got the remote facing the TV, with his other arm flung over the back of the couch. When he sees me in the doorway, he smiles as he drops his arm from the back cushion, patting the pillow in his lap.

  It’s so sweet and adorable. He really is okay with doing nothing and just finishing the night watching a movie. Which just makes me want him even more.

  “I’m gonna be inside you, and you’re damn well gonna know it, Tink.”

  He’s sweet, and he’s adorable, and he makes me laugh, but Jesus the things he says to me, and the way he makes me feel. He deserves to reap the benefits of my creative mothering, especially since it’s all for him. And, you know, for me as well. I never knew how much I wanted quick, dirty, and secretive sex until I was moments away from having quick, dirty, and secretive sex.

  Keeping my eyes on Baker, I walk across the living room, pausing to turn off the solitary lamp in the room. Baker continues to watch me through just the glow of the television, the sound turned down just low enough that I can barely hear the baseball game he was watching as I move to stand in between his spread knees. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, when I take the remote out of his hand and toss it next to him on the couch. Without saying a word, I keep my eyes locked on his as I gently press my knee into the couch between his legs, leaning forward and resting my hands on the back of the couch, on either side of his head. My mouth is hovering right over his, and I take a second to lightly brush my lips back and forth over them.

  I can already feel him getting hard against my knee, and his hands slide up the outside of my thighs, stopping at my hips. I know he wants to keep going. His hands are gipping tightly to my hips, and there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, telling me he’s holding himself back. He won’t push me. This has to be my decision. This is my house, and my kid is asleep down the hall.

  “I’m gonna be inside you, and you’re damn well gonna know it, Tink.”

  The anticipation brings back the pulsing ache between my thighs as I brush my lips over Baker’s again, and his hands get even tighter on my hips.

  Waking my long-lost wild child from her slumber, I remove a hand from the back of the couch to slide it down Baker’s chest, not stopping until it’s cupping his seriously impressive erection over his pants.

  “Fucking hell,” Baker groans quietly against my lips, his hips jerking slightly when I gently grip him in my palm.

  “I don’t want to wait a week, or a month,” I whisper against his mouth, as I drag my hand back up his length, squeezing as I go, until it’s sliding back up his chest. “I want you inside me, as soon as possible.”

  Baker’s head immediately jerks forward to attack my mouth, but I quickly pull back before he can reach it. Grabbing one of his hands off my hip, I stand up, pulling him with me as I go. I start to walk backward with his hand in mine, when he suddenly yanks me against him.

  Neither one of us speaks. We just stare at each other while the soft hum of a sports announcer talks about batting averages, in my shadowy living room with the glow of the TV flashing across our faces. My body is flush against Baker, and I can feel him hard and heavy between us. I want to feel him hard and heavy between my legs, and I’m getting wetter and wetter just thinking about it, as both of us stand here looking at each other, not saying a word.

  I pull away from Baker again when he starts to lean toward me, and his mouth is almost on mine again. Still holding tightly to his hand, I turn away from him and lead him through the kitchen, glancing back at him over my shoulder as we walk. His eyes meet mine and they’re full of fire, the clench of his fist down by his side and the stiff set of his shoulders telling me that since I’ve given the green light, he’s finished with the teasing.

  Pulling him inside the dark laundry room, Baker closes the door behind him, and before I know it, his chest is pressing into my back, crowding me against the front of the washing machine. My hands are resting on top of the cold metal, and one of Baker’s arms wraps around me, tugging me back into his chest as his mouth comes down to the side of my neck.

  I tilt my head to give him better access as he kisses and nibbles and sucks on the skin right below my ear, his arm tightening around my waist as his free hand reaches around and starts fumbling with the button and zipper of my jeans. There’s nothing but the dim glow of a small nightlight plugged into the outlet by the door, but it’s just enough for me to be able to look down and see Baker’s hand as it disappears down the front of my jeans.

  My hand flies off the top of the washer to clamp around Baker’s wrist, letting out a low, pleasure-filled gasp when his fingers find my clit and immediately start circling it. Neither one of us has said a word yet, and there’s something even hotter about being in this small, dark room, with nothing but the sounds of our heavy breathing, as B
aker stands behind me, pushing my body into the front of the washer as he rubs and circles and moves those fingers between my legs, preparing me for what’s about to happen. I’m already prepared. I’ve been prepared since the first time he put his hands on me. As mind-blowing as it feels to have his hand down my pants again, I need more.

  With my hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist, I yank his out of my pants and quickly turn around to face him. He doesn’t move an inch when I turn, and he’s still crowding me against the washing machine. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw as he looks at me, his shoulders tense, his arm muscles tightly clenched as he holds himself in check. Still making sure I want this, even though I said it out loud and dragged him back here into this room. With my eyes locked on his, I shimmy my jeans down my hips, keeping my red lace thong on as I go, bumping into the front of Baker with each movement I make. I’ve only managed to pull one leg out of these stupid tight jeans, when he’s suddenly on me, unable to hold himself back any longer, thank God.

  His arms are around me, and he’s lifted me right up off my feet and plopped me down on top of the washing machine, his mouth crashing against mine. He kisses me like he can’t get enough of me, his tongue pushing deeper and his arms around me tightening, holding me securely against the front of him. My leg without the jeans dangling from the knee wraps around Baker’s hip, tugging him closer, needing this to happen before I die from wanting him so much.

  Now that I’ve taken half my pants off and Baker knows I’m not fucking around, we’re a frantic mess of punishing kisses and quickly roving hands. My hands move between us and I hastily start tugging down his athletic pants and boxer briefs until they’re right below the cheeks of his ass, and his cock springs out. Baker never stops kissing me as he touches every part of me he can reach, from my neck to my shoulders, over my breasts and down the outside of my bare thigh that’s currently wrapped around him. Breaking the kiss, Baker keeps his mouth against mine, just the lightest brush of his lips as he pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his athletic pants, grabbing a condom out of it before tossing the wallet to the ground.